The Mouths of Babes
by Linnie McCary
Summary: Bad habits make for hard lessons.


_A/N: This is for merannoeu, who kindly inquired. I'm sure it's not what you had in mind, friend, but I hope you enjoy it. It's not what I had in mind, either, but it's what happened. "Supernatural" and its characters are the intellectual property of others, and I make no claims to any of it, nor to F. W. Dixon's __What Happened at Midnight__. __I write solely for my own entertainment. And yours, I hope!_

**THE MOUTHS OF BABES**

In the back seat, Sam had rucked his t-shirt up and was patting his rounded tummy happily, stuffed full of pancakes, blueberry syrup smeared from dimple to dimple.

"Dean, clean up your brother."

John caught his older boy's glance in the rearview mirror, and gave him a look. He wasn't angry, but he'd already had to speak to Dean once today about keeping Sam in check, and the second time was an annoyance. At the ripe age of just-ten, Dean had been riding herd on the youngest Winchester for years, particularly when John was on a job. Slacking off was unacceptable, and everyone knew it.

"Sorry, Dad. Sam, lick your lips!"

Dean vanished momentarily from view as he leaned down to capture a water bottle from the backseat foot-well, then poured water into his cupped palm, holding it out toward his little brother.

"C'mere, Sammy. Try not to get all wet."

John watched in the mirror as Sam scooted over on the seat and obediently planted his face in Dean's hand. The process didn't look very efficient, but a few quick scrubs were all it took before Dean deemed his little brother clean enough to pass muster. Another healthy application of fresh water followed, and then the bottle was re-capped. John caught Dean's eye again and gave him an approving nod. Mission accomplished.

Wet face glistening, Sam still cradled the bloated curve of his stomach with chubby hands. "Look, Dean," he said, grinning. "I'm the Pancake Buddha!"

John felt his eyebrows rise. Sammy was nearly six, and already smarter than his father could ever hope to be.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean acknowledged sarcastically. "You're the Pancake Buddha, and I'm Batman. Here, dry your face."

For a few moments there was relative silence while Sam dabbed his cheeks with the hem of Dean's t-shirt. John gave the Impala a little more gas, hoping to cover at least another two hundred miles before the boys needed the next inevitable bathroom break, or the bottomless pit known as Dean Winchester required more sustenance. "Sure would be nice to have some pie" had become his older boy's latest less-than-subtle hint that it was time for John to start looking for the next place to eat.

They were in Utah, heading north after John's last job. Even Singer hadn't known what it was John had hunted, tracking the creature across three states before its pattern became predictable. Some sort of chupacabra, maybe, although it was different enough that nobody was certain. Still, once John had realized how it traveled, once he'd recognized that apparent randomness was actually routine—well, after that, it was easy. Yesterday afternoon, three hundred miles south and at yet another diner for the boys' early supper, John had checked his notes and an area map, relieved to find exactly what he knew he'd find, exactly what the creature inevitably sought before killing. All he had to do then was get ahead of it, and lie in wait.

Discovering the pattern had felt good, and John had rewarded himself with a smile at the pretty waitress when she'd brought his coffee to the table, along with the boys' sodas. Naturally, the moment had been interrupted. Just as naturally, Sam had done the interrupting.

"Daddy, what's 'pea-tight'?" the little boy had asked, perusing the menu carefully while his brother eyed the video games near the door.

John had glanced across the table, quickly reading upside down the word indicated by his son's pointer finger and feeling his smile broaden.

"'Petite,'" he'd corrected, "not 'pea-tight.' It means 'small.' When they say 'petite niblets,' Sammy, they mean corn kernels that aren't on the cob. You'll like them."

"I know, but I think they changed the menu, because I never saw that word before. 'Puh-teet,'" Sam had enunciated carefully, eyes on the lettering, lips stretching on the long vowel as he committed the new vocabulary to his prodigious memory. "Small, like me."

Dean had snorted, and although John had shot him a remonstrative glance, the man couldn't help but be amused as well. Sam was still holding onto a fair amount of baby fat, especially in his round cheeks.

"Not exactly like you, Sammy," John had said. "But close."

Within an hour, he'd checked them in to a local motel, loaded his long-range rifle with silver-tipped cartridges, given Dean the standard instructions, and headed out.

Hours after that, the chupa-thing was dead, two bullets center-mass, one more in its throat, and another right between its baleful eyes. Maybe they'd never know what it was, but John didn't really care. There was one less monster in the world, and that was what mattered.

He'd called Singer right away, to let him know, but the line had been busy, and John hadn't bothered to leave a message. Instead, he'd returned to the motel, where he'd updated his journal while the boys slept, scanned the newspapers while they packed their pajamas, then bundled everyone into the car for a hunt in Idaho. They'd driven almost three hours before stopping for breakfast, where Sam had become the Pancake Buddha, complete with blueberry syrup.

Now, ten minutes down the road following his clean-up, Sam suddenly gasped, and John's eyes shot to the mirror.

"Dean!" Sammy could barely contain the excitement in his voice. "You didn't make a mark! Was that another one?"

"I don't think so, Sam," came the blasé reply, and John watched his younger son's face fall.

"Why not?" the little boy asked, frowning.

"Because I think I remember it, that's why not," Dean answered, and Sam sighed in disappointment.

"Okay. But I'm really pretty sure you should make a mark."

"Well, _I'm_ really pretty sure I shouldn't. Here, I got the crayons from the diner—why don't you color for a while?"

"No," was Sam's unequivocal reply. "Read me this instead."

He wrestled a thin blue book from a bag at his feet and presented it to his brother.

Dean took a look at the title and shook his head, but John placed a mental bet on his youngest. When Sammy used that tone, and that look—that one, right there—no way was Dean getting out of this without at least half an hour of reading.

John had to give it to his oldest boy, though—he tried.

"Sam, no. We just read that one last week. You already know how they solved the mystery."

"I want it again." Sam must have started to swing his legs, because John felt two light kicks to his back through the seat. "Only this time, make Frank be Dean and Joe be Sam."

The third kick landed squarely on John's spine. It didn't hurt, but it was aggravating as hell, and he knew from experience Sam was just getting started.

"Dean," he warned, at the same time Sam also whined his brother's name.

"Deeean! Please!"

The older boy caught his father's eye in the mirror again, sighed, and accepted the book. Then he patted the space beside him.

"Okay, but come here, so you don't kick Dad."

Sammy complied by lying down across the seat, curly brown head on his brother's thigh and feet braced against the car door.

"Don't make it scary," he commanded, settling in.

"Sam, their plane crashes!"

"_That_'s not scary. I mean when the clock strikes!"

Exasperated, Dean groaned as he opened the book and flipped past the first few pages. "Okay, Frank is me, Joe is you, and I won't make it scary. Stop squirming, Sammy. Chapter One. 'Burglars.'"

In a few minutes, the drone of his older son's voice became white noise. John let his focus drift from the case ahead—a ghost, he thought, so likely a straightforward salt-and-burn—to the hunt he'd just finished.

Patterns were habits, and bad ones, at that. The kind that could get you killed, if someone was so inclined as to take advantage. Whatever the chupa-thing had been, John had used one of its patterns as a lethal weapon in his arsenal against it. It had taken him almost a month to even notice the thing's invariable custom. A tiny behavior, almost innocent, with enough of a lapse between it and when the creature fed that the connection was virtually unrecognizable. Still, even that small correlation was enough to mean the chupa's end, once John had finally put the pieces together. Four times he'd observed the habit before things clicked, but when they did, it had just been a matter of time before he had the creature in his sights.

For a hunter, patterns were good things, John reflected, feeling a little smug. For the hunted? Patterns weren't good at all.

Half a day and one pit-stop later, he pulled the car off the road at one of those little commercial strips that grow like weeds wherever two highways intersect, offering gas, a variety of fast food joints and a place for weary travelers to rest. John didn't remember this one from the last time they'd been through, maybe ten, eleven months before—everything looked new, although there was little else to distinguish it from the last hundred such pull-offs they'd passed.

It was mid-afternoon, but the boys begged for breakfast again. John himself was hungry for something a little more substantial, so he selected a place he knew would satisfy everyone's appetites, at least until dinner. Then he settled his sons into a booth before trying once more to reach Singer.

"Dean, get me some caffeine and keep an eye on your brother. I'll order when I get back—I've got to make a call."

"Yessir. Dad, can we get dessert? You'll like the—"

"Pie. I know, Dean. Eat your meal first, and we'll see."

John made sure he could see the boys from his vantage point at the pay-phone, then placed the call. Singer had news: Hunters were saying Daniel Elkins had killed the last nest of vampires west of the Mississippi, outside of Texas.

"_Guess he'll have one less thing to worry about_," Singer's voice crackled through the phone line.

"Why's that?"

"_There's plenty of vampires had his scent—made it harder for him to cover himself on a hunt. Made it easier to find him, too, when they came lookin'_."

That was more news, something _else_ Elkins had never mentioned on the few occasions he and John had actually had a conversation. John heard surprise bleed into his voice.

"They did that?"

"_At least three times I know of_," Singer replied, "_but he was ready for 'em_."

There'd been a couple of instances when the chupa-thing had sensed John on its trail, doubling back in an effort to lose him or maybe surprise him from behind. Each time, he'd outsmarted it, but if he hadn't been able to kill it, would it have tracked him the way he'd tracked it? The way vampires had apparently tracked Elkins?

He filled Singer in on what he knew about the creature, how he'd figured out what it was up to and then put an end to it. After that, John paused a moment before asking the question that now weighed on him a little.

"Bobby. There a lot of things like those vampires that come after hunters?"

Singer's response was both unsatisfactory and unsettling. "_Monsters are like hunters, John. Most of 'em are opportunists, goin' after whatever's handy. They don't give a damn about anything except what's right on the plate in front of 'em. This thing you just killed? Case in point. But there's plenty out there that's smarter, wilier—those vampires, f'r instance, or ghouls, sometimes—and then you've got to watch yourself, before you end up as the thing bein' hunted. Best never to get into that kind of situation from the start._"

John nodded into the phone. "Get them before they get you. Yeah, that's been my plan. All right, thanks, Bobby. I'm headed up west of Boise for a couple of days; probably be a while before I call in."

"_That thing in Nampa? I'll mark it off my map. How are the hooligans?"_

His mind already back on the road, John wondered briefly if hooligans were in any way related to gremlins, and how either one had anything to do with the spirit in Idaho. Then he caught on.

"Boys are fine. I'll tell 'em you asked after 'em."

He ended the call without saying goodbye, and got back to the booth in time to hear Sam order "petite pancakes."

"He means the silver dollar ones," Dean explained to the befuddled teenaged girl serving them.

"That's what I said," Sammy replied loftily. "And Daddy wants coffee."

Then memory struck like a blow—Fort Douglas, just two months earlier—and John nearly staggered. The shtriga that had fed on Sam was one of the very few things he'd hunted that John had let get away. Seeing that monster hovering over his boy, sucking out Sam's life, sucking out John's—he had fired, but too late, the shtriga vanishing into the night and Sam blinking dazedly from amongst the bed-clothes. Then all John could think was to gather his sons and get them to safety. He'd driven them to Jim Murphy's, hands trembling the whole way, then headed back to Fort Douglas immediately, but it was for nothing. The thing was gone, its pattern reflecting it might lie dormant for another fifteen, twenty years before it began to feed again on the children of some unwary town.

The shtriga had had a taste of Sam. John had failed, and now he felt fresh terror wash through him.

Would it remember? Would it come after them? Was it on Sam's trail, even now, eager to finish what it had started?

"Dad?"

There was a note of alarm in Dean's voice, enough to cause John to turn, his waking nightmare interrupted. He found his older boy pale-faced and eyeing him apprehensively.

"I told you to watch out for your brother," John said, his voice rough, and Dean blinked.

"I know, Dad. I do."

John stared at him for a full five seconds, completely unaware of the naked fear in his eyes as he watched the boy grow paler still. Finally, he reached out to clap his son on the shoulder, an expression more grimace than smile twisting his face.

"I know you do, Dean. Just don't forget. Now let's eat and get back on the road."

Three-quarters of an hour later, John personally washed the blueberry syrup off Sam's face and hands before loading the boys back into the car. He was anxious now to get to Nampa, take care of whatever business waited there. Truth be told, he was anxious, too, to put some miles behind them.

He was a smart and cautious man, he knew, never leaving much of a trail in his wake. Elkins had taught him how to use blind drop-boxes, and John had learned about aliases, phony credit cards and fake IDs on his own. Beyond Singer, Murphy and the occasional meet-up with a few others, there were very few constants any more in the Winchesters' haphazard lifestyle. Mostly just the car and each other.

"That was a brand new one, Dean!"

Sam was excited, his voice rising in pitch, and John intervened immediately.

"Boys, your old man needs to focus, so keep it down back there."

"Okay, Daddy."

"Yessir."

There was silence for all of ten seconds, during which John finally rejected the worrisome notion the shtriga might have followed them from Wisconsin. Unlike the chupa-thing he'd just hunted down south, shtrigas and their ilk were generally territorial, limited to a specific region. He'd failed to kill the one in Fort Douglas, but that wasn't a mistake he intended to make again, whatever he hunted. He'd keep burning corpses and burning bridges, leaving no trail to follow. So long as he remained vigilant, he could be sure his boys would stay safe.

Except for that shtriga, there was only one other hunt John had started that he'd yet to end….

"Dean, make the mark!" Sam whispered loudly.

"Sam! Be quiet!" Dean whispered back, just as loudly, and John took in a deep breath through his nose.

"I _am _being quiet," Sam responded intensely, "but you need to make the mark!"

"I know! I'm going to!" There was an odd note of achievement mixed with the vexation in Dean's voice, and although John generally tuned out his sons' idle chatter as he drove, this time the distraction caught his attention.

"You're right, Sammy, that was a brand new one," Dean continued, and Sam emitted a shriek of delight. The hand he clapped over his mouth was immediately covered by his brother's, while Dean caught John's disapproving glare in the mirror.

"Sorry, Dad," the older boy said, releasing his hold on Sam when John nodded.

"How many is it, Dean?" Sammy stage-whispered, trying hard to contain his exhilaration.

John watched surreptitiously while Dean dug in his pocket for a battered little notebook, a stubby pencil stuck into the coiled wire binding. John had seen it before but never paid it much mind, typically more occupied with updating his own journal. Now he looked on as Dean carefully opened the tatty book and leafed through several pages before retrieving the pencil and making a mark. Then the boy paused, studying.

"Four hundred and sixty-eight," he announced finally, and the little one beside him stifled another shriek behind two chubby hands.

"Lemme see!" Sam demanded, eyes round, and Dean dutifully surrendered the notebook. John's quick glance into the back revealed a wrinkled, dog-eared page filled with hash-marks.

"How many for you, Dean?"

"All of 'em. Every single one."

"And how many for me?"

Dean reached over and ruffled his kid brother's hair.

"Same as me, Sammy. Four hundred and sixty-eight! 'Course, I had to guess the first ones, when you were just a baby, so it might be a little off."

"No, I'm sure it's exactly right." Sam's grip on the notebook was tight, his expression one of awed glee. "Dean, that's almost five whole hundred!"

John's skin began to prickle.

"Five whole hundred what, Sammy?" he asked casually, although the dread curdling his stomach told him he already knew the answer.

"Truly's Diners, Daddy!" his boy responded, and John closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Every time we go to a different one, Dean puts it in the book."

"I don't mark any repeats, Dad," Dean said proudly. "And if I'm not sure, I don't count those ones, either. We've eaten at four hundred and sixty-eight different Truly's, practically all across the country. That's a lot! Good thing I wasn't counting how many pancakes Sammy's eaten, huh?"

"Good thing, all right."

His voice was weak, the words like ashes in his mouth. The pattern was so clear—almost a hundred times a year, if Dean's numbers were right—yet John had never seen it, not even once. He felt bile rise in his throat as he tried to smile at his sons in the back seat. He knew suddenly why Dean had chosen the restaurant chain to track, why Sam was so thrilled at the record they'd accumulated. Truly's Diners were familiar and comfortable, each one an exact duplicate of every other. Same layout, same lighting, same menu…a reliable, reassuring constant in the boys' constantly shifting lives. A warm place, where they could feel safe and secure. It was a lesson he'd taught them, something they'd learned from their own father's damn-fool habit of taking them there over and over and over again.

But the lesson was wrong, the habit an invitation to disaster. No place was safe. There were monsters in the world, and so long as that was true, no place could ever be safe again.

He had to pull off the road quickly. When they got going again a few minutes later, John knew his sons were watching, distressed and confused. He wanted to ease their fears, tell them everything was going to be all right, but couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes in the mirror. He cleared his throat, but said nothing. What words could be enough?

"Don't worry, Sammy," he heard Dean murmur to the subdued little boy beside him. "It's prob'ly just something he ate."

-:- -:- -:-

Five months later, John gave the Georgia motel room one last visual sweep.

"Let's go, boys!" he barked. "We're burning daylight."

"Okay, Dad," Sam replied, flying out the door into the brisk morning air.

Dean followed more slowly, eyes trained on something he'd pulled from his jacket pocket. He paused momentarily to examine it, then shrugged and ripped out a page from the little notebook, tossing it negligently into the trashcan beside the door.

"Hey, Sammy," he called. "Did you remember to pee?"

"I don't hafta go," came the reply, and John sighed, figuring they'd be lucky to get in forty miles before the first pit-stop.

He watched as his boys began a spontaneous game of tag in the parking lot, bursting with early-morning energy. Then, curious, he reached into the trash to retrieve the paper Dean had discarded.

He recognized it at once, each mark a damning indictment against a father who'd been careless with his children's lives. John made himself count every shameful one, nodding with grim acceptance when he reached the end of his tally. Then he crumpled the paper in one fist and dropped it back into the can.

Four hundred and sixty-eight exactly.

They had to sleep, and eat, and stop for gas. He hunted. The boys had to go to school, when they settled in one place long enough, and sometimes they all took refuge at a salvage yard in South Dakota. But so help him God, beyond those necessities, there would never be another recognizable pattern for the Winchesters, so long as he lived. There'd be no custom someone or something could use to puzzle out where they'd been, or where they were headed. John Winchester would die before he'd jeopardize his sons that way ever again.

He tapped the trashcan with the toe of his boot, then stepped out into the brightening day.

"Get in the car, boys," he ordered. "We've got someplace else to be."

# # #

_Comments are welcome._


End file.
